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Departure
CW: mention of serious injury and implied torture
"Process Complete. Please disengage the patient at once."
A calm and steady voice rang clearly across the laboratory, and those who heard it complied without hesitation. Stepping swiftly past rows of sleek machines and monitors toward their charge, a figure in a worn yet tidy lab coat towered over their colleagues as they assessed their latest experiment. One of the many grievously wounded warriors that had barely straggled home from the latest invasion efforts lay suspended in a transparent capsule, freshly drained of its liquid contents. Yet the being that had nearly been torn apart mere days ago appeared whole, with only the barest signs of physical trauma.
"Breathing normal, heart rate stable...you've truly done it again, Director! He's practically good as new thanks to your new gene therapy treatment!" one of the smaller creatures cheered.
"I appreciate your kind words as always, dear Assistant," the Director replied, "but we must continue to monitor progress before we are certain this is suitable for further distribution. Nevertheless, good work today, everyone. You may take your leave while I see to this patient and close up the lab. I am certain you will need your rest for tomorrow."
After the celebrating Assistants had departed, the Director allowed their own weariness to set in. The patient had recovered, that much was true. But as the Director sent his capsule on its way back to the medical ward with a few nimble keystrokes, they couldn't help but wonder if he would even be allowed to recover, or if his fate has been sealed when he had been weak enough to fail his superiors.
So hard-working, those dear Assistants. They still believed, didn't they? There was still hope in their eyes, still a mistaken idea that their work was for the greater good. The Director's emerald eyes had lost most of their passion some years ago. Director. They scoffed at the title—it was hardly an honor to be awarded a fancy position when they remained stripped of a name beyond their function, just like everyone else in the facility. If they'd ever had a name before, it was lost to time and memories that were no longer theirs to possess.
Time after painstaking time the miracles they wrought were perverted beyond recognition by the Peacekeepers who ruled over all. Advances in horticulture, twisted to bioengineering invasive species that overran entire planets. Nutritional supplements that relieved extreme fatigue, employed to force-march soldiers and prisoners alike for days. The latest success in regenerative medicine would most likely weaponized to prolong torture or some similarly ghastly purpose. The Peacekeepers clearly wished to spite them as thoroughly as possible, taunting them, daring them to raise an objection, just itching to punish them for insubordination. Probably with some of the very means fashioned by the Director's own hand.
The Director swallowed bitterly as they took inventory and tidied up their workspace. There was no doubt in their mind—their continued existence depended solely on how useful they remained, and if the rumors were true, another sector of the facility was hard at work manufacturing algorithms in the hopes of automating biological affronts to decency, designed to replace them and their life's work. Planned obsolescence—not just for machines any more, the Director sighed ruefully.
One final sweep of the lab to ensure a spotless inspection come morning, and the Director gathered their belongings, with nothing but the quiet clack of their talons and the swish of the automatic doors to mark their departure. A few stark, overly-lit corridors guided them to the shuttle that would transport them back to their work-provided quarters. Spacious enough, compared to what most had, but just as devoid of spirit as the rest of the accursed facility.
In some distant corner of the galaxy, as yet untouched by these horrors, tomorrow would be another day, with new possibilities. But not for any within the vast reaches of the Peacekeepers. Not so long as the Director remained in their thrall.
As they had for years every evening before sleep, the Director went over the plan in their head carefully—no recording device could be trusted, and everything had to be perfect for it to work. So much still remained uncertain, save that this next project, regardless of outcome, would be their last.